Professor Chris Whitty's guide to dating

HELLO. Professor Chris Whitty here. Here is my foolproof advice for pulling the birds, in the form of a slideshow presentation. First slide please.


Forget fancy restaurants and expensive displays of affection and invest your money in the latest version of Microsoft Powerpoint instead. Your date will swoon as you smoothly transition between heat maps of the North East. Next slide please.

Lie about your figures

If there’s one thing that women hate, it’s transparency. Whether it’s disease-related statistical projections or boasts about your sexual ability, the trick is to outline a shocking worst case scenario then come in way below that. Your date won’t mind you only lasting three minutes in the sack if you’ve already told her it’ll be a 20-second pump followed by a half-hour cry. Next slide please.

Keep your distance

You should always chat up women from a distance to reduce the risk of fatal respiratory failure. Two metres is the bare minimum, more is better. If you really want to stay safe, try shouting flattering comments across the street at them, eg. ‘Nice arse, darling.’ This always works for builders. Next slide please.

Bring two of your mates

I wish you could hear the hilarious bantz that Johnny Van Tam, Pat Vallance and I have in the government canteen after sinking a few cups of tea. I like to bring them both along on dates as wingmen, because nothing gets the ladies wetter than scientific corroboration between three men in their 50s. Next slide please.

Have a rule-of-three slogan

My latest catchy and slightly patronising rule-of-three slogan guarantees you’ll get somewhere with any bird:


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Boris Johnson's self-isolation diary, day nine

IT has been nine days since I lost all contact my colleagues, my public, my fiancee, my son. Coincidentally it was also the day Dom left and I’m pissed off I didn’t get to properly enjoy that. 

But I’ve been keeping a diary this entire time, because Churchill kept a diary and I’m just like him. Here are the highlights.

Day one

Dom is going apeshit. I told him personally how sad we are that he’s leaving, by getting Carrie to do it, but he’s still after some face time with the big man. ‘I know you’re in there, coward,’ he says as he walks around banging on walls. Sadly, the rules of self-isolation mean I must remain completely silent and hidden in this cupboard.

Day two

It’s Saturday, so I get up and knock on the door to be let out. But no, apparently you have to self-isolate at weekends too. Nonsense on stilts.

Day four

The news is out about BoJo’s corona no-show, and I’ve filmed a little video about it and put it on Twitter. 6,100 retweets. Meanwhile Trump’s getting 182,400 for tweeting ‘I won the Election!’ The British are such twats.

Day five 

Pass my Covid test and demand to be let out. Apparently that’s not how it works. Demand to see Professor Whitty. Apparently he’s busy. I hear him chatting later and shout ‘Oi, Whitty!’ He goes quiet.

Day six

Prime Minister’s Questions today, and a video link’s been set up so I can take part. Starmer keeps smirking like there’s something funny about me being in this situation because I ignored the rules specifically set out by my office and repeated by me at briefings.

Day seven

My big cyber-green-army-levelling-up relaunch is happening today and I’m missing it. Suggest it could be delayed until next week, so I can be personally involved sprinkling on the old charm and magic. Carrie says ‘F**k no’, then ‘Sorry, I thought I was on mute.’

Day nine

Everyone appears to have left for the weekend. All I’ve got to eat is a sharing pack of Chilli Heatwave Doritos. The door’s locked and nobody’s answering their phones. I’ve really gone off Covid.